


Faith

by anactoria



Category: Watchmen (2009)
Genre: Creepy Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Original Character Death(s), Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:37:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adrian has faith in humanity. Most of the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2009, for a kinkmeme prompt that requested Adrian having an emotional breakdown.

Adrian believes that the world is worth saving. He also believes that human beings, given free choice, will generally elect to do good; that in a fair and unified world, instances of what less educated men call _evil_ would be rare. He believes these things even when all evidence present is to the contrary, and sometimes he wonders if he does so simply because he fears what he might become if he did not.

He has seen men who view the world as a resource to be mined for personal gain, as an irredeemable mess of corruption, as a sick joke, and he has self-awareness enough to know what a loss of faith might make of him. Something dark and sharp, and infinitely frightening.

Still, it is difficult to have conviction at times like this. When they have been too late, and there is only broken glass and torn flesh and the primary-colored evidence of flat cruelty splattered on blankets and floor (and a single, fat glob of it on the wall, arched and dripping, a clown's upside-down smile.) They catch the perpetrators without incident, of course, and hand them over to the police, but it's hollow. They have saved nothing.

And what really _gets_ to Adrian, what sticks in his throat and makes it dry and sets his thoughts on end, is that these are not the children of broken and abusive homes, not gangsters or angry young men from the wrong side of the tracks. They are wealthy. Educated. Beloved sons of privileged families, with no reason to strike out violently at the world or take out their frustrations upon the bodies of the defenceless. They did this for _fun_. And when he thinks about that he cannot help but question-- 

But then there are headlights and noise, and a woman with a TV station ID badge pinned to her blouse is shoving a microphone into the Comedian's face, asking something that contains the word 'tragedy' with a look of solemnity that is far too fixed and stern to be real. They should have gotten out of here already. The crime scene has been taped off and has begun to look like a photograph. There will be more press here soon.

Blake sneers a monosyllable and shoulders past the reporter, and she blinks around in bewilderment for a moment. Then her eyes light on Adrian and she makes a beeline for him, smiling with relief at the prospect of a suitable soundbite, broadcast-face momentarily forgotten. 

She'll have to be disappointed, though; Adrian has no stomach for media games tonight. It is all he can do to retain his poise as he suggests coolly that she direct her questions to the police. He is suddenly very grateful for the darkness, and for his mask. He is sure that his eyes must betray the simple, irrational desire to run and hide.

* * *

Adrian removes his armor, showers, busies himself with preparing for the day's meetings. He does not bother going to bed. The weariness that has hold of him now is too deep and too crushing for sleep; and besides, whatever dreams may come tonight, he does not care to dream them.

The Sisyphean task of crimefighting is certainly frustrating, and he already knows that he will not keep at it much longer. He will have more important matters to attend to, soon. But the enormity of what he has resolved to do -- and of the consequences, should he be mistaken -- comes upon him suddenly, sometimes, and makes it hard to breathe. It is crushing, and doubts clutch at him from the darkness, and he feels very, very small.

He passes the day without incident, however -- coolly neutral on the outside, occupying himself with trivialities to avoid unwelcome thoughts where possible, and feeling that he might shatter and fall in scattered pieces to the floor at any moment -- and arrives home in the blueing evening with vague ideas about going out on patrol. He certainly does not relish the notion of a night with only his own mind for company. 

But he hasn't slept, and tiredness can be fatal when dealing with violence. He should rest first. 

Adrian draws the curtains, removes his shoes and tie, and arranges himself carefully on top of the bedcovers, determining to get up in a half-hour's time, regardless. He closes his eyes. 

Then he decides that that makes thinking far too easy, and opens them again, staring at the ceiling instead. 

It doesn't help.

The bed dips beside him, and he turns his head. Bubastis, still kittenishly curious, sniffing at his face. But today the idea of sharing affection with a fellow-creature is unbearable, and he shoos her away with an irritated flick of his wrist. 

She shies back, startled, then jumps down and stalks out of the room, pausing in the doorway to give him an offended look. Adrian's heart sinks immediately. It isn't _her_ fault.

"It's okay, girl," he tells her, softly, patting the patch of duvet beside him. "I'm sorry. Come on."

But she just sniffs and walks off, tail in the air, leaving him entirely alone.

And that, for some reason, is when the tears come. It is after only a moment's thought (better to get it all out now than to be distracted by doubts when he is trying to work) that he gives himself up to them.

Perhaps it is simply the consciousness of his solitude that has crept up on him, or perhaps it is the weight of his responsibility, or the awfulness of never really knowing that what he is planning to do is right (and a treacherous little voice tells him that it is not too late, that he could give up now and no-one would ever know). But part of him wants to protest, with childish indignation, that it is not _fair_ , that surely there should be someone else out there who sees what must be done, somebody for him to trust, and another part simply wants to cling to something soft and never look up ever again, and a very small, ashamed part just wishes helplessly that there was someone he could call right now, somebody who would come over and sit beside him, and hold his hands until they have stopped trembling.

There is no-one. There is just the twilight, and the soft, lonely room, and a sadness that is as vast and implacable as the oncoming night.

* * *

It is hours later that Adrian becomes conscious of a cautious rapping on the outside of his window. He blinks awake, with some effort; his eyelids are glued shut, and he realizes that at some point he must have cried himself to sleep. But the crushing, helpless feeling that has been oppressing him has gone. Instead, his mind feels slight and empty; flattened out.

He stands and stretches, running through his mental list of people who might take it upon themselves to visit at this hour. Blake? No; they have fucked a couple of times, and it's helped defuse the tension of mutual dislike on the occasions when they've been forced to work together, but neither bothers with the pretence of actually caring. Rorschach? He's known for his obsessive tendencies, and Adrian's sure the little psychopath must know where he lives, never having taken any particular care to conceal his identity from the other masks. But Rorschach follows people out of suspicion, not concern, and there is nothing out of the ordinary in Adrian's being absent for a day or two. It's unavoidable, on those occasions when he has to fly abroad on business. He can't imagine that it would occur to Jon or Silk Specter to drop by. That just leaves--

"Dan."

There's a relieved smile under the goggles as Adrian pulls the curtain aside, and he opens the window to let Nite Owl through. 

"Hey." It's apologetic. "Sorry. I hope you don't mind me just showing up like this. It's just-- well, I heard you'd cut out early last night, and when nobody had heard from you today, either, I thought I'd drop by and see how you were."

Adrian manages a shaky smile. "There's no need to apologize," he says, but his voice comes out too rough and too quiet, and it makes him sound fragile. "I appreciate your concern. But I'm fine, really."

"Great. That's great. I, uh, guess I should get going, then."

Adrian opens his mouth to agree, but instead he finds himself saying, "Not at all. You must be tired. Would you care to stay for a coffee?"

Without waiting for an answer, or thinking too much about why he's inviting Dan in for coffee in the early hours of the morning as though it's the most normal thing in the world, Adrian motions Dan through into the lounge, flicking on the light as he follows. 

Dan pulls off his cowl. "Thanks," he says, blinking. "I could really use--" He breaks off as his eyes light on Adrian's face, and his smile fades. " _Shit_. Adrian. Are you sure everything's okay? You look awful."

"Really?" Adrian tries for mild surprise, but he knows Dan must be right -- he's still in his rumpled shirt and suit pants, and his eyes feel sore -- and besides, he still cannot quite get his voice to do what he wants it to, and what comes out sounds slightly desperate instead. 

Dan's eyebrows draw together in consternation. "Why don't you sit down?" he says, and the words are so gentle that for a moment Adrian thinks he might start to fall apart again. "I'll get the coffee. Where's the kitchen?"

Adrian thinks that he would like to object, but his mind is whitewashed and Dan is looking at him expectantly. So instead he just sinks gratefully onto a couch, and closes his eyes. "Across the hall. On the left."

Perhaps he dozes off, because it seems as though only seconds have passed when Dan settles down on the couch beside him and hands him a warm mug of coffee. Decaffeinated, a little milk, no sugar; just as he likes it, though he's feeling too faded and dazed to be surprised that Dan remembers this.

"I heard about last night," Dan says, and the expression on his face is unbearably open and kind. "And I'm sorry. I know it gets rough."

"It certainly does." Adrian nods, eyes half-closed, though whether against the memory or Dan's sympathy he is not sure.

"But we can't always be there in time," Dan goes on, eyes intent, earnest. "We can't save everyone. That doesn't mean the people we _do_ save don't count."

Adrian doesn't reply. Because how can he? How can he say anything to this man, who is trying to comfort him without any idea of what he must do, with no idea of how little his well-meant platitudes mean?

Dan places an ungloved hand on his shoulder, then, warm and solid, and the touch reaches something in Adrian that is immune to words. Dan is ordinary, yes, but he is good. He has no ulterior motive for being here; he is visiting out of simple comradeship and concern. They are friends, but not close ones, and Dan cares anyway.

_This_ is human nature, too. The better part of it. 

The world is worth saving. It is difficult to believe that, at times, but in this moment it becomes a little easier.

Adrian places one of his own hands on top of Dan's, then, and squeezes it. "Thank you," he says, gently. "I needed that."

Dan will never know how much he means it.


End file.
